Vienna Secrets

10

Councillor Schmidt and his nephew were sitting in a coffeehouse, attacking their zwiebelrostbraten as if they had not eaten for more than a week. The slices of beef were piled high with crispy fried onion rings and garnished with cucumber. Schmidt felt his stomach pressing against his vest and reached down to undo one of the buttons. A mound of flesh-covered in the tight whiteness of his shirt-bulged out of the gap. He was a big man, prone to putting on weight easily, and he thought, rather ruefully, that it was preferable for a political leader to look lean and athletic rather than heavy and bovine. Burke Faust had been a sportsman in his youth, and he still looked trim! Schmidt considered forgoing the pleasure of a second course, but his resolve evaporated when he placed a piece of meat into his mouth and it melted like butter, releasing with its disintegration a bouquet of savory flavors.

Fabian had been talking incessantly-a constant, tumbling flow of gossip, tittle-tattle, and trivia. He spoke of his visits to the Knobloch household, where he had made the acquaintance of Fraulein Carla, who was very pretty and an accomplished pianist; of his friend Dreher, who had come into a fortune and was about to embark on a world tour; and of the new beer cellar in the fifth district, where he had seen a man give a rousing speech about workers’ rights, which he had agreed with entirely, but which had produced a lot of heckling before a fight broke out and he’d been obliged to punch someone in the face to shut him up.

When Fabian was in full spate, Schmidt was content to listen, and say very little. Occasionally he would grunt or look up from his meal. However, that was usually the extent of his involvement. He wasn’t particularly interested. But he didn’t object to Fabian’s talk. Indeed, he found his nephew’s nonsense quite comforting, like familiar music played softly in the background, and once in a while Fabian said things that allowed Schmidt to gauge opinion among his nephew’s peers-the all-important youth of Vienna. Many of Fabian’s friends were disaffected, and Schmidt could see why. What kind of future could they hope for? Too many people, too few jobs, and an unremitting stream of parasites coming in from the east. As soon as people really grasped the gravity of the situation, they would be moved to take action-of that he was sure. It was just a question of giving them something on which to focus their minds.

Schmidt was suddenly aware of a certain accord between his private thoughts and his nephew’s chatter. Fabian was reaching the end of a story, and Schmidt sensed that he had missed something that might be important.

“What did you say?”

“He stopped him… stopped him from giving the last rites.”

“Did I hear you mention von Kortig?”

“Yes, it was the young Baron von Kortig who was denied.”

“And where did this happen?”

“The General Hospital.”

Schmidt’s mastication slowed. “How do you know about this?”

“Edlinger!” Fabian realized that his uncle had not been listening. He pulled a petulant face and sighed. “My friend Edlinger. We play cards together with Neuner and Fink. He’s a character, Edlinger, always getting himself into scrapes. He’s the one who insulted Eisler’s wife and got challenged to a duel.”

“And where did Edlinger hear this?”

“He was there when it happened! He’s an aspirant. He was covering for one of his colleagues. Platen, I think. He’d gotten some tickets for the opera and wanted to take a friend.”

Fabian winked.

“And the priest?” said Schmidt. “Do you know the priest’s name?”

Fabian shrugged.

“Could you find out?” Schmidt pressed.

“Why do you want to know the priest’s name, Uncle Julius?”

“Never you mind. Could you find out?” he repeated.

“Well, I can ask Edlinger, if you like.”

“I would like that very much. When will you be seeing Edlinger again?”

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“Good,” said Schmidt. “Now, isn’t this zwiebelrostbraten splendid?”

Schmidt allowed another piece of meat to flake into nothingness. It was like manna, and he permitted himself an inner self-congratulatory smile.